


bet you didn't know that i was dangerous

by LadyAlice101



Series: you understand, i got a plan for us [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/M, Littlefinger POV, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, creepyfinger - Freeform, littlefinger is his own warning, petyr baelish pov, set somewhere after s6, white walkers? what white walkers?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-08
Updated: 2019-11-08
Packaged: 2021-01-25 11:36:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21355630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyAlice101/pseuds/LadyAlice101
Summary: “I mean that your brother took a woman to bed, and when he had his way with her, he said your name into her ear over and over again.”// In which Littlefinger tests for Jon's weaknesses, and discovers a secret.
Relationships: Jon Snow/Sansa Stark, one sided Petyr Baelish/Sansa Stark
Series: you understand, i got a plan for us [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1541059
Comments: 52
Kudos: 404





	bet you didn't know that i was dangerous

**Author's Note:**

> this has had a lot of variations over the past week, but i'm v happy with this result. it practically fell from my fingers, so i hope ya'll enjoy it!

Peytr is sure that the new King has a weakness. All men do. These weaknesses manifest themselves in only a handful of ways: three, to be precise.

Power, vices, and women.

The first, Petyr is undecided upon. The King has henceforth not exactly seemed the power hungry type, but he’s ambitious enough, and with the skill set to achieve what he desires. First the Lord Commander post, and now King in the North. There is no higher position, except King of the Seven Kingdoms, and thus far Petyr isn’t sure if the boy covets that Throne as well.

The second, Petyr has ruled out completely. He’s not seen the King drink copious amounts, nor have much brought to his room. Unless he is much more cunning than Petyr is giving him credit for, the King also hasn’t obtained any illicit and addictive concoctions to take at night. Petyr’s never seen him gamble or bet, not caught him smoking cigars or some such things. No, the new King Jon’s weakness does not lay with something so simple as a vice such as those, and it would be a discredit to both their characters to entertain the thought.

The third, well . . . the third Petyr had thought unlikely for the longest time. The only reason he’d kept deliberating the possibility was because he couldn’t for certain say the King’s weakness laid with power. To test his theory, Petyr had been sending a variety of women to the King’s door, attempting to seduce him in some manner. Each night, he’s watched as the King opened the door to his solar, usually still dressed in his formal clothes but occasionally in his sleepwear, and then politely decline the company of whomever Petyr has decided upon for the day.

Tonight, however . . .

Petyr can’t say for sure what urged him to choose the girl he had. She’s a newer recruit, come to him for fear of freezing to death in the upcoming winter, and she’s served proficiently enough. Not the most comely of his girls, not particularly petite and youthful like what is usually enjoyed the most. No, instead she’s tall, and rather lean, and holds her back straight like doing so is the only way she can face the day. It’s her hair, of course, that is the most striking. Beautiful and long, the red locks have kept even Petyr himself fascinated for hours upon hours.

They’re nothing compared to the woman she emanates, of course, but the look and style is similar enough that Petyr can pretend. Other men, too, if her popularity is anything to go by. Most of the men in the castle and Wintertown know they’re unlikely to even step within three feet of the Lady of Winterfell, let alone share her bed, and so Alysanne has become a good enough second for quite a few men.

Quietly, Petyr is pleased at the girl’s name, too. It’s so close to what his beautiful Sansa’s once was, when he had her close enough to touch, and it makes heady memories cloud his mind occasionally. Alysanne has never once mentioned or commented on the fact that it is Sansa’s - or sometimes Catelyn’s - name that Petyr whispers in her ear when he spills inside her.

He supposes she’s used to it, by this point.

But, gods, even when he’d had a tug of instinct, when he’d seen a tension build between Jon and Sansa that afternoon that had resulted in a fierce argument that is yet to be resolved, and he’d decided that that night he’d send his Sansa lookalike to the King’s door . . .

No, he didn’t truly expect that the King would silently open his door wider, and let Alysanne enter.

Several hours later, Alysanne knocks upon Petyr’s door, her hair pulled loose from the braid he’d sent her in with, and her dress ripped down the seam though hidden by her cloak.

“Well?” Petyr asks, pouring a cup of moon tea for the girl.

She stares at it for several long moments, then picks it up quietly and takes a sip. She acts more and more like Sansa every day, and Petyr is endlessly pleased by it.

“We fucked,” she says, bluntly, and Petyr is pulled from his daydream in which she’s the girl he knows and loves. His darling Sansa would _never _swear. “It was fine.”

Petyr barely restrains himself from rolling his eyes. He’d hardly care if the King in the North was the best fuck she’d ever had. But he’s sent more than a dozen different girls to the King’s door over the last several moons, and she’s the first he’s ever accepted. Petyr will accept no less than every detail she remembers – and, if she’s as promising a whore as she’s made herself out to be, then she’ll remember them all.

“What did he say when you entered?”

Alysanne shrugs, then puts down her cup. “Not much. Asked for my name. He didn’t really want to talk.”

Hmm. He’s not a particularly loquacious man. It makes sense that he wouldn’t say anything of import on the first endeavor. He’ll have to send Alysanne more.

“And is he willing for more encounters?”

Alysanne hesitates, and this time Petyr can easily see that she’s hiding something. Something she’d hoped not to have to tell him, by the looks.

“What is it?” Petyr demands.

She purses her lips, then shakes her head. “Nothing, really. Honestly, I don’t have much to say. He was eager enough. I think I pleased him enough that he’d say yes if I knocked again.”

Ah. So they’re going to play it that way, then.

Quietly, Petyr stands from where he sits and goes over to his desk. On the corner of it sits a small vial, and he wordlessly picks it up and returns to the lounge Alysanne still sits at.

Without so much as a moment of hesitation, Petyr uncorks the vial and pours half of it into the teacup. The liquid goes a deep red, the colour of the poison he’d poured in, and then he grasps the cup by the handle and hands it to her.

“Tell me, Alysanne. What are you hiding?”

Alysanne stares down at the cup, eyes fluttering with apprehension.

“Are you not thirsty, my dear?” Petyr says, and despite the words being kind, they’re spilled with anger and no small share of threat. “Surely the King wore you out.”

Alysanne swallows harshly, lips pursed, then puts the cup back in its saucer.

“He said her name,” she confesses.

Petyr feels the prick of something in his skull, something hungry and eager, but something ugly and envious, too.

“Whose?” Petyr asks, but he already knows.

“His sister’s,” Alysanne whispers, looking away from him, her red hair spilling over her shoulder. “He called me Sansa.”

Petyr blinks once, slightly taken aback, and then stands. He takes the cup of tea and quietly pours the poison liquid into a potted plant in the corner of the room. Once the cup is empty and his threat has been taken as seriously as it always is, he turns back to Alysanne.

“Tell me everything.”

Petyr sits on the information for about a week.

He spends many an hour gleefully wondering which category to put this weakness in. Does it belong in the women category? Petyr wonders, smiling down at his accounts books, or does it deserve it’s own subcategory, named after Snow himself. A category reserved only for bastards, for the lowest and most lustful of them all, the ones who are so base they whisper their _sister’s _name in the ear of a whore as they come.

In that time, the bastard accepts Alysanne into his rooms once more, two nights after the first, but every night after that he’s slammed the door in her face – if he even opens it at all.

As the week wears on, Petyr’s joy at the information slowly wanes.

Instead of being sure that the information being spread at an opportune time will result in the dethroning of the bastard at _least _– and perhaps even with his head on a chopping block, but Petyr only entertains that thought after he’s brought himself to peak and imagined Sansa laying beside him in bed – Petyr starts to wonder if . . .

The thought is so perturbing that Petyr refuses to let himself think it for several days.

The two of them act so strangely, ensconcing themselves into her chambers in the evening, taking turns about the castellation’s, acting inappropriately tactile in public places. They disappear and reappear, almost always together, Sansa’s arm so often hooked through Jon’s elbow that Petyr starts to wonder where she ends and he beings.

It makes his stomach turn and his throat ache, something like jealously, something like disgust.

But he’s not a coward, and he’s not the type to shy away from an uncomfortable thing, particularly something that will advance his own cause so. And even if it sullies Sansa, even if she truly would lower herself to laying with her own brother, then Petyr starts to think more and more that that’s not a terrible thing. As long as no one else finds out that she’s soiled – or, at least, more soiled than she’d been after the Bolton bastard had been done with her – then Petyr starts to think that maybe Snow will teach her a thing or two. She’ll be truly interesting in bed after fucking her own brother, surely.

Petyr’s always imagined he’d like her docile, mewling up at him as she eagerly spreads her legs, but now he beings to imagine her a bit more heated, a bit more exciting.

He can deal with her having had a small indiscretion with her bastard brother if it means she’ll sit on her knees for him and whine _please, Petyr, I want your cock _around a pout.

Truthfully though, he’s gotten ahead of himself, as he has a tendency to do. He doesn’t actually know if Jon and Sansa have imbibed in each other just yet, but he’s willing to find out.

And so, just over a week after Alysanne had been accepted to Jon’s rooms, Petyr finds himself in a private audience with the Lady of Winterfell.

“Jon accepted a whore I sent to his room,” Petyr says, keeping his tone light and conversational.

“Did he?” Sansa asks, but it doesn’t particularly sound like a question. More like a flat response, like she isn’t even really listening. She even keeps scribbling away on her parchment, and doesn’t look up at him.

Petyr won’t have that.

“He did,” he responds. “A red haired woman, tall and lean.”

Sansa hums, and keep writing.

Peytr narrows his eyes. “Does the King know any tall and lean red haired women? Perhaps he was seeking familiar comfort.”

Sansa’s quill scratches against her parchment as she crosses through something.

“Aye, he had a red haired lover when he was with the Free Folk. I’d hardly know if she was tall and lean, however.”

An interesting piece of information. Not one that grants him any leverage, of course, but interesting nonetheless. Perhaps red haired women are his weakness; he’d broken his Night’s Watch bows previously for one, and for a measly Wildling at that. Imagine the types of vows he’d break for a woman such as Sansa.

For a moment, Petyr deliberates telling her the truth. A world of possibility is rapidly expanding before his very eyes: Sansa married to the King, becoming Queen in the North, and then the King befalling a mysterious accident . . . Perhaps this is the way to the Throne after all. She could make a claim to the Riverlands, and after she’s Queen of two Kingdoms he’ll organize a marriage between himself and Sansa, uniting the Vale and the North. Three of the seven Kingdoms, just at his fingertips, and with the lovely wife he’s always wanted at his side forevermore.

He doesn’t know for sure that she and Jon are carrying on some kind of illicit relationship. For all he knows, she acts as she does because she’s lonely or some such nonsense. The nuances of a woman’s emotions escape him, sometimes, even if their desires do not.

And if Sansa isn’t already fucking her brother, then she’s likely not ever going to. Nor would she have entertained the thought. So if she _isn’t _carrying on with him, then how does Petyr get her to marry her half-brother? Would telling her Jon’s words now encourage it, would it open possibilities to her, or would it disgust her and spoil his plans before they even have a chance to be planted?

Either way, telling her the details of Jon’s indiscretion is most likely to get him the results he needs.

“In any case, my lord, I have more important things to be doing than listening to the variety of women my King entertains in his bed.”

Is that a hint of jealously he can detect? Or exasperation?

Only one way to find out.

“I assure you, Sansa, that it isn’t a variety of women he’s accepted. It’s only the one. I’ve sent the finest women to his door time and again, and only this single whore has he accepted.”

“I’m glad to know he won’t be fathering a litany of bastards, then,” Sansa says, her tone dry as if she finds this entire conversation ironic.

“He won’t father any,” Petyr dismisses. “She’s already taken moon tea. Besides, he didn’t spill inside her.”

Sansa’s hand tightens around her quill, and her brow furrows. “Lord Baelish, I’m quickly losing my patience. I didn’t need to know any of what you’ve told me, but I especially didn’t need to know any details of this frolic. Now, if you please –“

“My dear, surely you have learnt by now that it is best to know every detail you can glean,” Petyr taunts. He knows that his caught her attention, because why wouldn’t it? But, just to be sure, Petyr continues, “In any case, I haven’t even told you the most interesting part.”

“Then get on with it, my lord.”

“He said your name.”

Sansa’s quill stops scratching, and Petyr relishes in the victory.

“What?” Sansa asks, her voice lined with a tight anger he’s never before heard from her. She looks up from her work, and her eyes are burning with an intensity that Petyr had hoped they wouldn’t. Of course this would disgust her, he’d gotten swept away in the possibilities and hadn’t appreciated that this information might _anger _her. “What do you mean?”

Best to put it delicately, Petyr decides. “I mean that your brother took a woman to bed, and when he had his way with her, he said your name into her ear over and over again.”

Sansa’s jaw clenches tightly, and she drops her quill to the table. She sits back in her chair and looks away from him, to the other side of the room where a row of flicking candles sit. He wonders what she’s thinking.

He can’t quite tell anymore, not really, but it’s easy to see that she’s displeased.

“Why are you telling me this?” she asks finally, turning back to him. “What do you want me to do about it?”

“Tell me what you’re thinking,” Petyr says instead.

She shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know what to think,” she admits, and lets out a small breath. “It’s not exactly . . . the most savoury of news.”

“No, I imagine not, sweetling,” Petyr says kindly. “Given this new insight, I’m no longer sure that a bastard sitting upon your beloved Northern throne is the most appropriate thing.”

Sansa raises a brow at him. He’s stepped too far. No matter. Only a light misstep, and now he knows that she won’t be able to dispose of him herself.

“It seems like quite the conclusion, to associate his proclivities in bed with his ability to rule.”

Petyr goes back to being unsure about her _own _proclivities in bed. It isn’t truly such a leap, to learn of such a sinful act and to immediately decide he must be disposed of. If she were thinking clearly, then she would be able to see that herself.

“Perhaps,” Petyr allows anyway. “If he is to remain King, then, and this weakness of his has been revealed . . . well, surely it must be obvious to you what the next step is.”

“Surely,” Sansa says wryly, and then turns back to her parchment.

For the first time, Petyr feels a well of anger start to tighten in his gut. The _nerve _of her. To lay with her own brother, and then not take Petyr seriously. Catelyn would _never. _Sansa has too much of her father’s blood in her, too much wolf. Once he marries her, he will have to train that out of her, like he would any good breeding dog.

Petyr rolls his tongue behind his teeth to calm himself.

“It’s to marry him, my dear.”

Sansa looks up sharply in surprise.

“You can’t be serious,” she says, incredulous. “He’s my _brother_.”

“An obstacle, to be sure, but nothing I can’t overcome,” Petyr dismisses. “It would legitimize him, give him the Stark name. It would halt any power struggle that might eventually come to pass. You need not worry how to convince the Lord’s, sweetling, I will handle them. You need only worry on how to convince _him. _And it seems he’s halfway there already.”

“This is a joke,” Sansa retorts flatly, hands clenched around the arms of her chair.

Again, Petyr goes back to being unsure she’s sharing the bastard’s bed. She looks as outraged by the suggestion as she should.

“Don’t you want to be Queen of the North?” Petyr asks softly. For now, he keeps his aspirations for more Kingdoms quiet. She won’t take too kindly to the suggestion, Petyr is sure.

“I . . .”

Petyr waits her out, the silence not as stifling to him as it likely is to her.

Suddenly her face hardens, and she picks her quill back up. “I have lots of work to do, Lord Baelish. You can see yourself out.”

Three days later, the crippled Stark boy rolls back into Winterfell’s gates with a calm gaze that more than slightly unnerves Petyr.

He absconds with Jon and Sansa into the Lady’s chambers on the first evening, and the three of them don’t emerge until the next day.

In those night hours, everything had changed.

Petyr tries so desperately to learn what they whispered about, more desperately than he’s ever tried to learn anything. They’d denied all maids entry during the night, Sansa herself going down to the kitchens to collect bread and jam for their supper. Afterwards, none of the three of them whisper a single syllable on what they’d discussed.

But if Petyr thought Jon and Sansa close before, then they’re inseparable now. Over the next few weeks, Petyr feels like he’s going mad just from the sight of them. Whispering in corners, heads bowed together over the high table, Jon’s hand resting upon Sansa’s armrest as they entertain the Lord’s. He can never seek one out and not find the other, and he feels his control slipping away, piece by infuriating piece. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster until, one day, he makes a mistake that had seemed small at the time, but which later costs him his life.

As the afternoon starts to truly wear on, Jon and Sansa take a private stroll through the godswood. The tall woman, Sansa’s guard, stands at the entrance to the godswood, barring entry to everyone, but Petyr is the best spymaster Westeros has ever known. He may not be a Stark, but he knows a way or two of entry to the godswood.

He keeps his step soft and light, loathe to let anything alert the pair to his presence.

From where he’s entered, Petyr has a general idea of where he’s going. Jon and Sansa could be anywhere, but they’re most likely by the weirwood, the predictable pair of Stark’s that they are.

Petyr makes his way there slowly, wary of stumbling across them due to his unfamiliarity with the snow-covered ground. He’s better to catch them mid conversation than to rush and spoil the whole thing.

It is the silence from his steps that allows him to hear heavy breathing and loud moans break through the still air.

_How odd_, Petyr thinks. _It almost sounds like . . . _

“Yes, Jon, _please_.”

Petyr isn’t a fool. He knows _exactly _what this is. The couple continue to pant like dogs, and as he gets closer he can even hear the obscene sound of the bastard taking his sister like some kind of animal.

Even so, Petyr isn’t prepared for the sight of them. He keeps to the shadows, the grey of the North hiding him easily, and peeks around the thick foliage to glimpse at them.

_Oh, my sweet Sansa, _Petyr mourns as his gaze finally lands upon the amorous pair. _What has that bastard done to you? _

Jon Snow has Sansa pressed up against their beloved weirwood tree, her skirts hitched up so high Petyr can see her white thighs, and his breeches are down about his ankles. Sansa claws through the fur stretched across her brother’s back, her head scraping up and down against the sacred bark of the tree as Jon’s fucks into her so hard her entire body moves with the force of it.

So close to them now, he can hear that Sansa is practically screaming her begs, sobbing in her pleasure while Jon spouts the most vile, filthiest words Petyr has ever heard outside of a brothel. Perhaps not even in one, either, the bastard King’s, “Come for your brother, Sansa,” a particular choice of words that Petyr can truthfully say he’s never heard before; not even from the Lannister’s.

Sansa does as she is commanded, a litany of acquiescence pouring from her lips, and Petyr hates her obedience as much as he loves it. She’s more disgusting than he gave her credit for, fucking her brother out of wedlock like some kind of whore. Ladies don’t partake in such activity, and they have no business either saying or hearing the words Jon and Sansa are uttering to each other.

And yet, at the same time, Petyr cannot wait until she says the same things to him. He’ll show her more respect than this bastard ever has – he won’t take her outdoors, nor outside of their marriage bed at all, and this little glimpse of her has stoked his fantasy more than his imagination ever could. Now he knows what her face looks like when she peaks. It’s what he imagines Catelyn’s looked like, too.

“I love you,” Sansa croons, and Petyr stills. A white hot ball of jealously unfurls like it hadn’t before, when their relations had been strictly carnal, and now Petyr wants nothing more than to watch Snow’s lifesblood stain the white beneath his feet; even more than he wants Sansa on her knees and begging for his forgiveness.

“Peak, Jon, please,” Sansa gasps, tightening her arms around his shoulders. “Please, spill inside me, I want your child so badly.”

The ragged groan of the base man fills the godswood, his hips stuttering in their brutal pace.

Petyr will have to slip some tansy in her evening tea tonight. He won’t have her conceiving a child that isn’t her own, _especially _one that belongs to this King-pretender.

_That’s a weak-minded thought,_ Petyr chides himself. Getting Sansa with his child will certainly strengthen her hold on the North after the King’s _accident, _but he’ll sneak her moon tea nonetheless. Conceiving the bastard’s child outside of wedlock would cause more problems than conceiving one within would solve.

After he’s spilt, the bastard lays prone against Sansa, he head still braced in the crook her neck and his arms wound around her waist. Petyr has no idea if he’s whispering to her, but by the lovesick expression on her face, he’s glad of it.

It’s absolutely vile, the way these two are carrying on.

Oh, if Petyr didn’t covet the Throne more than he covets the air in his lungs, then he would absolutely _rejoice _in sharing this information. To watch the horror bloom on people’s faces, to see as the dour Northerner’s slowly turned on their precious Starks . . . If Petyr didn’t want Jon’s crown and Sansa in his bed, then he would have left and whispered this secret already, just for the pleasure of orchestrating the demise of the Ned-and-Cat-come-agains.

“I love you,” Sansa says finally, without the desperation that had previously possessed her. Now, it’s just matter of fact, and Petyr hates it and her.

Slowly, her eyes wander around the clearing, and if Petyr didn’t know any better, he’d swear that she were scanning the treeline.

_Relax, _he tells himself, trying to rid himself of the foolish notion that she’d know he were here. Still, his spine starts to tingle and the hair on his arms stands on end. Is this fear, he wonders?

“I love you,” Jon rumbles in response, head shifting slightly, likely to press a kiss to her neck.

Sansa rakes her fingers through the curls at Jon’s nape.

“You’ll give me his head, won’t you?” Sansa asks, and Petyr’s heart stops.

Her gaze has landed right on him.

_Oh. _

_Oh, gods no. _

“Nothing could stop me,” Jon promises. “Petyr Baelish is as good as dead already.”

Petyr’s breath stops and shudders in his mouth, and his chest starts to squeeze painfully tight. Surely she can’t have outplayed him, _how _would she even –

But her eyes are still sharply upon his, and Petyr is rooted to the spot, the blue of them icy and cold.

“I agree,” Sansa says, then tilts her head to kiss her brother.

What is the worst possible reason Sansa could have fucked her brother in public?

_To goad me into coming here. _

Why would she want him to see this?

_So I couldn’t bear to turn my eyes away. _

Why would she want him distracted?

_To kill me. _

Petyr turns on his heel to run.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm very seriously considering writing a companion piece from jon's pov (and by considering, i mean i've already written a bit). let me know if you want to see that too! <3


End file.
